Chapter 2 - The House of WhispersThe air in the subterranean level beneath the Moretti mansion was cold, smelling of damp limestone and old wine casks. Built in the late nineteenth century, these vaults had once stored imported spirits during Prohibition, but for the last fifty years, they had served as the ultimate vault for the family's most sensitive records—and its darkest secrets.
Charles Bellamy sat strapped to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the low-ceilinged room. His expensive suit was torn at the shoulder, his silk tie discarded on the dirt floor. Beside him, Dominic sat on a wooden bench, his head in his hands, weeping softly.
Isabella was kept in an adjacent room, guarded by two armed men who didn't react to her endless demands to speak to her legal counsel.
Vincent stood in the shadows near the stone archway, smoking a thin cigar. The orange ember illuminated his harsh jawline every time he drew breath.
"You have five minutes, Charles," Vincent said quietly from the dark. "After five minutes, I turn you over to Marcus. You remember Marcus, don't you? You drew up his employment contract when he left the Special Forces."
Charles swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Vincent... listen to reason. If anything happens to me, my firm has automated files set to deploy to the Federal Prosecutor’s office in Manhattan. You’ll be indicted within twenty-four hours!"
Vincent walked out of the shadows, taking the cigar from his mouth and exhaling a thin cloud of blue smoke directly into Bellamy’s face.
"Do you think I care about an indictment today?" Vincent asked softly. "My wife has been gone for three years. I have spent every single day of those three years living in a hell built by your lies. Do you really believe the fear of a prison cell has any power over me right now?"
He leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of Charles’s chair, bringing his face inches from the attorney's.
"Where is Sofia?"
Charles’s eyes darted left and right, looking for an escape that didn't exist. "She... she isn't dead, Vincent. I swear to you, she isn't dead!"
Dominic looked up from the bench, his voice trembling. "Tell him, Charles! Tell him before he lets Marcus loose on us!"
"Shut up, Dominic!" Charles snapped, but his own composure was entirely gone. He turned back to Vincent, his voice dropping into an urgent whisper. "The Romano family wanted the Hudson shipping lanes and the Old Lyme land trusts. They knew you would never sell. The only way to get those assets was through a legal takeover of the Moretti continuity trust—which required your signature on an estate merger."
"Which required me to remarry into the Romano line," Vincent filled in the blanks, his voice flat. "And to remarry, I had to believe my wife was gone."
"Isabella was brought in to keep you grounded," Charles confessed, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "She was supposed to guide you toward the wedding. Once you signed the agreement today, the Romano family would have assumed controlling interest in seventy percent of your legitimate holdings."
"I don't give a damn about the holdings!" Vincent roared, slamming his fist onto the arm of the wooden chair with a sound like a gunshot. The wood cracked under the force. "Where is my wife?!"
"She’s at the private clinic in Blackwood!" Charles screamed, closing his eyes in terror. "Near the Canadian border! It’s a high-security private facility owned by Isabella’s uncle! She’s been kept there under a heavy sedative program under an assumed name!"
Vincent froze. The air left his lungs in a single, ragged exhale.
Alive.
She was alive.
"Is she sick?" Vincent asked, his voice suddenly thick with an emotion he hadn't allowed himself to feel in three years. "Did you hurt her?"
"No! No major physical injuries," Charles stammered desperately. "She... she tried to escape twice in the first year, so they increased her sedation. She’s weak, Vincent. But she’s alive. I swear it on my mother's soul!"
Vincent slowly stood up straight. He looked at Marcus, who was standing quietly in the corner of the vault.
"Take their phones," Vincent ordered. "Lock them down here. If they make a sound, make sure they regret it."
"And Isabella?" Marcus asked.
Vincent paused at the doorway, looking back at the silver pendant resting on the table near the entrance.
"Keep her separate. She doesn't see the light of day until Sofia is back in this house."
Fifteen minutes later, the grand driveway of the Moretti estate echoed with the roar of three dark, heavy SUVs.
Vincent sat in the back of the lead vehicle, checking the action on a black semi-automatic pistol before sliding it into his shoulder holster. Beside him sat Daniel, his long-time head of tactical operations, holding a tablet displaying the layout of the Blackwood Private Medical Facility.
"It’s three hours north, boss," Daniel reported, turning the screen toward Vincent. "Situated on fifty acres of dense forest. It’s registered as a private psychiatric recovery center, but our intel shows it’s guarded by a private security firm contracted directly out of Montreal."
"How many guards?" Vincent asked without looking up.
"Eight on the perimeter, four inside the main wing," Daniel replied. "If we hit them hard and fast, we can control the facility before they even realize who is at the gate."
"We aren't hitting them hard and fast, Daniel," Vincent said, his eyes staring out the window as the gates of his estate opened to let the convoy pass into the gathering twilight. "We are destroying them. If anyone stands between me and my wife, do not hesitate."
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As the SUV accelerated onto the highway, Vincent pulled his personal phone from his pocket. He brought up a photo from four years ago—Sofia standing on the balcony of their mansion, her dark hair blowing in the autumn wind, laughing as she looked back at him.
"Hold on, Sofia," he whispered against the cold glass of the window. "I'm coming."
